


14:44

by strangeera



Series: You're alright [5]
Category: Emmerdale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6277342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeera/pseuds/strangeera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I open my eyes I'm laying in his bed – the duvet cover hanging off the duvet, spare change everywhere and I'm wearing a really old and way too big really faded purple Fat Willy's t-shirt that isn't mine, striped boxers, and one black sock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	14:44

**Author's Note:**

> This one really works best if you've read the other four. One left!

When I open my eyes I'm laying in his bed – the duvet cover hanging off the duvet, spare change everywhere and I'm wearing a really old and way too big really faded purple Fat Willy's t-shirt that isn't mine, striped boxers, and one black sock. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and from the living room I can hear what sounds like a weather forecast, and sure enough, the white bedroom is filled with yellow, sort of golden light. I feel so hungover but great, stretch out on the bed. The room smells like the good kind of body odour, you know, and when I glance over at the night stand to look for my phone, there's an empty bottle of Sunny Delight laying on it's side. I'm so thirsty, my mouth feels like it's stuck together, tastes like shit, try to swallow spit a few times but there's nothing. I'm feeling a little embarrassed that my mouth tastes this bad while laying in Robert's bed, and when I look for my jeans on the floor there's an empty pizza box taunting me, I checked. I'm so famished, I could eat a horse. My legs hurt. 

 

What am I doing here? I ask myself, but I can't remember that much, and then I'm asking myself, that ugly thing in my stomach, how I feel about being here, but it's silent. I shrug and stare at the empty bottle of Sunny Delight, wishing it was full and trying, but failing, to, I dunno, decode myself. I've never been any good at it, though. My black hoodie's hanging up on a coat rail on the bedroom door, next to Robert's black waxed jacket and a brown belt. The cold change touches my leg and I'm squirming, feeling nervous about the birthday card still in my hoodie pocket, unopened. Rub my head, then my face, then sit up, rub my knees, and grab Robert's old iPhone. 14:44, fuck me. There's a snapchat from Victoria, wearing the dog face, as usual; two missed calls from my mom; and a notification from a journal app I downloaded while bored last week and it says: How are you feeling? I dunno.

 

I drop the phone on the pillow next to me, wonder where Robert is, still feeling nervous, walk out into the living room, and he's sitting in the middle of the sofa, legs spread, sitting up, but asleep, and drooling – and he's wearing white boxer shorts, a grey Nike t-shirt that's way too small, underneath a blue dressing gown, no socks, and the ugly thing inside my stomach stirs, but feels different. I'm leaning against the wall with my arms crossed next to the framed anime poster, and I dunno, everything kind of suddenly comes together – the poster on the wall, his blonde, really hairy legs; that bed head; the BB-8 toy on the fireplace and, you know, I've never fancied him as much as I do now. My stomach is in knots, but good knots, and I stare at him for a few minutes, illuminated by light casting golden lines across his face, and I'm smiling, and I say: “you alright?”

 

-

 

I was pacing the birthday card aisle in the big Clinton's in Robbersfield, and I was having an absolute meltdown, thinking about pulling all my fingernails off, because it was Robert's birthday, and I was feeling really indecisive, as usual, and I kind of wanted to get him a birthday card, or something, I dunno, but I also didn't know whether I should, whether it'd be weird or whatever, I dunno, and I was staring at a pack of “singing birthday candles” and thinking about setting myself on fire. The shop felt too small, and I was staring at a birthday card that said: Ha Pea Birthday! with a picture of a pea wearing a party hat and I absolutely hated it, I felt so embarrassed just looking at it, and then I was staring at one with Mickey Mouse on the front that looked sort of classy, and then I stared at a few more, thought about giving up, writing “fuck you” on a piece of card and folding it in half. I was telling myself: stop it, he's alright, and then I saw one that said: Happy Birthday Just Saying.

 

-

 

He comes too with a start, almost kicking the coffee table, the iPad on the sofa next to him falls to the floor, and groggy, he stares at me for a few seconds, looking like an absolute mess, but a good mess, and then he smiles and says: “sorry, I didn't want to wake you up. You were really drunk last night.” Those teeth, the way his face goes when he smiles. I'm so thirsty I feel like I'm going to die, and I feel really self-concious about the absolute state of my mouth, and I say: “sorry if I, you know, did something,” but he shakes his head, moves over on the sofa, and says: “nah, you're alright.” Pats the sofa next to him. 

 

“My mouth is a state,” I say, still leaning against the wall, and he says: “there's some toothbrushes under the sink, next to the iron,” and I'm thinking about how many of those toothbrushes under the sink next to the iron have been used by people like me, then telling myself to shut the fuck up and chill out, and then I say: “alright, thanks. Be right back,” and he, still smiling, sort of winks at me but not really and says: “don't be too long.”

 

“I'll try not to get lost,” I say, and the ugly thing inside me has vanished.

 

-

 

He was standing at the bar by himself and I said: “you alright? Where is everyone?” and he said, looking kind of sad, I dunno, “who's everyone?” and I felt like shit but didn't say anything, just grabbed the beer that he handed me and drank half of it. I was feeling like, very aware of the birthday card in my pocket and just give it to him, I was telling myself, but I couldn't do it, and I said: “well anyway, happy birthday,” in a really half-arsed kind of way, hating myself, and he said, shrugging: “thanks.”

 

-

 

Sitting next to him on the sofa, staring at the TV remote on the coffee table, I say, absently playing with my phone: “where's Arnold?” and he says: “dog swimming,” and I say, laughing: “fuck off,” and he says, laughing as well: “Victoria's took him to the woods, said she wanted some “quality time” with her nephew,” rolling his eyes, and I say, nodding: “yeah,” and then I say, switching between snapchat and Facebook over and over again for no reason: “why'd you let me sleep so late?” and he says, staring at the TV, scratching the back of his head and yawning: “I thought you might be tired, you know, after last night,” and did he just wink at me, I'm thinking, panicking a little bit and he says, noticing: “oh no, nothing like that, you were really pissed,” and I say, trying to breathe: “we didn't do anything, did we?” finally locking the phone and when I look up at him, he's staring at me like I'm made out of glass, and he says, putting his hand on mine: “I wouldn't do that, Aaron,” and hearing him say my name is still, you know, such a thing, and I say: “I could murder a McDonald's Coke,” because I don't know what to say, and he says, getting it, pressing down on my hand a little bit: “a banana milkshake sounds really good.”

 

-

 

We're outside the McDonald's on Elland Road and he's sitting beside me in his car, and there's the new The 1975 CD on the dashboard and I'm wearing a pair of his joggers, his purple Fat Willy's t-shirt and my black hoodie, birthday card still in the pocket, and he's wearing the too-small grey Nike t-shirt and some sort of khaki looking shorts with white socks, what a nerd, and outside it's 16:12 and really sunny. Stare at the notification on my phone: How are you feeling? Feeling like I kind of want to give him this birthday card, feeling like I kind of don't. He's drinking a banana milkshake and I'm drinking the best McDonald's Coke I have ever had in my life, and just reach into your pocket, I'm telling myself. He says: “fuck me, this is good,” and I say: “mmm,” feeling so stressed out and just give him the card, I'm telling myself, it's not a big deal. I take a deep breath, put my hand in my pocket.


End file.
